


troubled thoughts and the self esteem to match

by sskkyyrraa



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Dysphoria, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sskkyyrraa/pseuds/sskkyyrraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of bodies. Just a quiet moment on Chorus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	troubled thoughts and the self esteem to match

“You want me to believe that you played Grifball?” Simmons asks, back against the wall and legs hiked up to his chin. Grif takes up most of the bed, laying back with his head propped up on his bunched up pillow. His eyes are shut and one arm is off the bed, skimming the tile floor.

“Well, yeah. I had to, it was quite literally named after my great grandfather,” Grif says, shrugging a tiny bit. “Besides, _everyone_ played Grifball at least once when they were kids. I just happened to be good at it and it was the only team that let you play whether you were a girl or boy.”

“What?” Simmons says, staring hard at Grif. “You mean like co-ed teams? So you could be around girls?”

“No, man. I mean yeah the teams were co-ed but– When I started transitioning, exercise really helped. Built mass, blew off steam. Made me feel better,” Grif says. He opens his eyes but doesn't look at Simmons, staring up at the ceiling. Things are quiet except for Grif's breathing, slow and measured.

“Okay.” Grif snaps his head up to look at Simmons who looks straight ahead and then down at Grif with a small smile, nodding. Grif noticeably relaxes and lays his head back down.

“Okay,” he says back with a shaky exhale. “Okay.”

Simmons hesitantly places his hand, the human one, on Grif's knee. Grif goes stiff and looks with wide eyes at the hand. He smiles and relaxes, closing his eyes again. Simmons is bright red from collarbone to hairline.

“So you're not really lazy then. You're faking it,” Simmons says with a huff. It feels weird in his chest, forcefully pushing air that isn't really there.

“Nah, I'm lazy. I always have been. Grifball came naturally so it's not like I went out and trained for it or anything. Anyways, that shit I had motivation for. This war is bullshit and way more effort than it's worth.”

“So why sign up? You could have kept living your life, never would have gotten caught up in this hell hole.”

“Fuck you, I was drafted. Never in my life would I have decided this was a good idea. Why would I want to join the army? Give me one goddamn good reason.” Grif sits up suddenly, arms crossed while he pouts at the opposite wall.

“I joined to pay for college,” Simmons says, stretching out his legs now that Grif isn't in his way. He bumps his foot against Grif's amiably. Grif sighs and slumps against the wall, hooking his foot around Simmons' at the ankle. Simmons finds himself hyper-aware of just how close their hands are ( _10.56mm_ provides the inhuman voice in his head). “I was top of my class and working two jobs to help afford the apartment my mom, sister, and I lived in. I was only supposed to be here for two years at most. Now look at me, more robot than human and worse than my dad. At least he didn't make a promise to come back.”

“Nah, fuck that guy. You're saving the fucking Earth or something. I don't actually know what we're doing anymore. Saving someone usually,” Grif says. He doesn't look Simmons in the eye but he links his pinky finger with Simmons'. Then he decides fuck it, and laces his hand completely with Simmons'. He grunts when Simmons pulls him close. Their heads smash together and Grif falls with his hand supporting himself against the wall next to Simmons' head. His body is all twisted up and uncomfortable, laughing with his head pressed into Simmons' shoulder. He finally catches his breath and glances up at Simmons with wide eyes. Then he slowly pushes himself up and braces his knees around either hip and when Simmons doesn't protest, though he makes a choked off gasp, he settles on his lap.

Grif isn't heavy. Solid, yes, but it's a reassuring weight that gives Simmons warmth and a sense of safety, comfort even. They touch forehead to forehead. Simmons' face is bright red and he focuses on Grif's brown eye. He's not sure where to put his hands, fumbling before choosing to grip the blanket with white knuckles. Grif nudges his nose against Simmons', breath just ghosting across his lips. His hand slides around to the back of his neck, fingertips just barely grazing the metal plating. The stats that scroll along the left side of Grif's face from Simmons' mechanical eye calculate Grif's vitals in shaky green text. Something in his mind tells him the exact pressure of Grif's fingers as they travel, feather light, up the back of his head, though he cannot physically feel it. They press there with the wide palm against the metal and fingers tangled in bright red hair as lips smash together.

It's like a dam bursting, years of repressed feelings and sexual tension let loose in an instant. It's the first time Simmons feels like he can breathe, like he's alive, in years. The kiss is sloppy, teeth bump and neither of them are quite confident to slip in tongue but they put their all in it and when they break for Grif to breathe they're all grins and breathy laughter. They bump noses and Simmons tries to count the number of eyelashes Grif has, ignoring the mechanized voice in his head that tells him average lash count is one hundred and fifty per upper eyelid. He focuses on Grif's hands instead glad that the second voice in his head has nothing to say about him pulling his shirt up and over his head, leaving Simmons chest bare while Grif roughly pulls his own shirt off. He throws both lazily to the ground. He just as lazily runs his fingertips up and down Simmons' human arm.

Simmons feels like he should say something, find out where this is going and what it means. He opens his mouth, even gets out Grif's name but it crumbles into a feeble moan when Grif's hot mouth finds its place right about his pulse. His eye goes wide and he swears his brain short circuits for a moment ( _Illogical. A moment in time is approximately one point five minutes. Recalculating...._ ) _._ Grif kisses the scar tissue connecting the cybernetic prosthetic to his shoulder, down and along his forearm, finally lifting his palm up and place a soft kiss to its center. He links fingers, rubbing his thumb along the side of his thumb. Simmons cannot feel it in the sense that he has nerve endings there but he's aware of careful devotion and soothing attention. Grif skirts his free hand across the metal plating of Simmons' lower back and then against his stomach and across his chest, pausing over the steady beat of the artificial heart.

Simmons dares to hesitantly run his hand up Grif's thigh and waist, pinching his side when Grif laughs in his ear. He just laughs harder, shaking his head and squirming under his touch. Simmons realizes that Grif is _ticklish_ and oh, that was _so_ gonna be used against him later. He places his hand over Grif's heart, feels it beat frantically against his chest. He balls up his fist in Grif's sweatpants, hides his face in his neck and feels what could only be the robotic equivalent of a panic attack. He can't think, his eye goes out of focus and text is fuzzy at best. For the first time ever his heart stutters. He doesn't make a sound or cry, he just shuts down.

Grif runs his hand through Simmons' hair. He moves to climb off Simmons and give him space but Simmons tightens his hold almost painfully. Grif settles back on Simmons lap and presses kisses to his temple, rubs circles in his back and up and down his upper arm. It's a coping mechanism that Grif used to use to remind himself that it was okay for him to take up space, that he was worth every inch of space.

“You're okay, you're okay. I get it, I do,” Grif says, voice hoarse and a little rough in discomfort. “Feel this? Yeah, it's yours. My heart is your heart. Your heart is my heart. You saved my life, you did good. It's fucked up but whatever. We're okay.”

Things are quiet for a moment except for Grif's slowing breathing. Simmons relaxes his hold and lets Grif support his weight. Somehow, Grif navigates them into a laying position with Simmons pressed against his chest, their legs tangled together. They stay like that until they both fall asleep. Things still sucked and probably would for a long time afterward, but in this moment, when they close their eyes and sort of stop thinking, it's pretty easy to think that things might just turn out alright. At least they have each other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took forever. it literally was 99% written since the first chapter but i started working and it is just kicking my ass. so here we go i hope u enjoyed it. thank u for reading and kudo-ing and bookmarking and generally taking time to even just think about this fic's existence!
> 
> xoxo skyra


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